


Surprisingly Okay

by not_miss_marple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everyone Thinks They're Together, John checks Sherlock out, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sherlock Thinks They're Together, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_miss_marple/pseuds/not_miss_marple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John was certifiably, pointedly, definitely, 100% Not Gay. Grade A Not Gay. The King of No Homo, Prince of Brotherly (PLATONIC) Love, and Mayor of Straight Town. And yet…"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprisingly Okay

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday present for my sister. Hopefully it's actually as funny as I thought it was.

John was certifiably, pointedly, definitely, 100% Not Gay. Grade A Not Gay. The King of No Homo, Prince of Brotherly (PLATONIC) Love, and Mayor of Straight Town. And yet…

And yet. He really hated those words. His reputation was on the line because of those two words. (Yes, he  _did_  have a reputation, thank you very much. John “Three Continents” Watson, Casanova of the Modern World, had a very good reputation. He could provide letters of recommendation to prove it. But being renowned for your sexual prowess wasn’t something you shared with your best mate—not if he was Sherlock Holmes. It would seem like he was bragging, and then it might sound like an invitation, and John Watson was definitely Not Gay. Honestly.)

He was Very Not Gay, and yet he often found himself wondering. He would have liked to blame his uncertainty on how sure everyone else seemed about his sexuality, but he knew he couldn’t ignore the few times it had happened before, although he normally wrote them off as being in the army, away from a society with more than a few women. His reputation as a major lady-killer kind of went by the wayside at times. Not often, mind you, but every once in a while he would see a man and think,  _Damn_.

Unfortunately, it happened most around Sherlock Holmes, Mr Married-to-His-Work. The man who had only shown real interest in Irene Adler in the years John had known him. (But honestly, if anyone was going to affect someone it would be Irene Adler, so the point was kind of void.) He wasn’t sure why it happened but sometimes John would look at Sherlock and feel his mouth go dry. His mind would go blank for a minute before he pulled himself back to the present, normally with an awkward cough as he tried to wet his lips and remember what they’d been discussing. Most of the time it wasn’t even a problem. Sherlock seemed to accept that John was almost as dull as the rest of humanity, so the blank stare didn’t faze him like it probably should.

When in a situation like this one, it really was a problem.

“John,” Sherlock prompted, looking over at the doctor with an expectant expression.

“Yes?” John answered, jumping a little and blinking as he concluded that he’d done it again. The curious and annoyed (and slightly concerned) look on Sherlock’s face made him realise that this was the wrong answer to give, so he smiled apologetically. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I need you to examine Ms Harrison, the victim’s wife, for signs of emphysema. It’s critical that we know whether she used pills or an inhaler to determine if the dead man accidentally took her medication or not. She’s being dull and I have to examine the scene before Anderson ruins it.”

“Uh, sure.” As John walked over to talk to the trembling woman, he saw Lestrade hiding a knowing smile. He winced, mentally scolding himself for practically checking Sherlock out in public. After he finished comforting and questioning her, he started back toward the younger man and neatly avoided Lestrade so the DI couldn’t comment. He relayed the information to Sherlock and froze when something practically miraculous happened.

Sherlock looked up at him and smiled fleetingly before opening his mouth.

“Thank you.”

_What?_  When John came back to himself, Sherlock was striding away and he had to jog to catch up.

* * *

A few days later, after the case was finished, the two of them were sprawled on their chairs. Sherlock was grinning, exhilarated by their success on the job. After a while John groaned and stood, going over to the kitchen. “Dinner?” he called back over his shoulder. “I think we have some leftover casserole from before the case. And don’t try to tell me you aren’t hungry, because I won’t believe you.”

“Far be it from me to lie about my appetite,” Sherlock commented dryly from right behind him, startling John.

The shorter man turned to give him a signature “Sass Me One More Time and See What Happens” look before pulling the casserole out of the fridge. He groaned. “Only enough for one. Take-away?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll cook.”

John snorted. When Sherlock just gave him an expectant look he blinked. “What, really?”

“Cooking is simple. Chemistry, taste combinations, the ability to set a timer and not burn anything…” Sherlock shrugged. “You can order take-away if you would feel more comfortable not eating something I’ve made.”

“No, it’s fine. I just… You, cooking?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock went over to the sink to wash his hands. “I have been cooking since I was a boy. Mycroft was always more enthusiastic about it, but I was quite accomplished as well. Now out. I don’t want you ruining it.”

“I can cook!”

“You can make tea, toast, eggs, and soup from a can. Out.”

John sighed but complied, barely resisting the urge to laugh when he saw Sherlock tying an apron around his waist and looking very serious. He typed up a new blog post as he waited for Sherlock to finish cooking. When the taller man walked in and stood in front of him, practically preening, with a self-satisfied smile on his face, John set the computer aside and followed Sherlock. “Paglia e fieno tombolino,” the detective explained. “Family recipe.”

“Smells good,” John commented. His stomach growled as if in agreement with the statement. Sherlock seemed to puff up even more at the praise before he ushered John to his chair and set his plate in front of him. John raised his eyebrows when Sherlock poured each of them some wine before whistling, impressed. “You must really be celebrating. Glad the case is over?”

“Glad it’s solved,” Sherlock corrected. “I’m sure I’ll be bored again in a day or so.”

John rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should find a hobby,” he suggested, “so you can fill your time when you aren’t on a case. Knitting. Whittling. Bird watching.” When Sherlock looked repulsed by the suggestion he laughed. “Or not.” They started in on the food and John moaned softly when he tasted the pasta. “This is fantastic, Sherlock. I might make you cook everything from now on.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the statement. He was too busy focusing on the food, his face down as he ate. “Glad you like it,” he answered, his voice strained and a bit odd.

“You okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Eat.”

“…Okay.” John ate his pasta silently before making a satisfied sound when he finished. “That was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Thank you.” He sat back and drank his wine slowly, watching Sherlock and zoning out again.  _Mm, he has nice hair. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it?_  He blinked to get rid of the thought (mostly to prevent it from going further than that) and drank a bigger sip of wine before setting the glass down.  _That’s quite enough of that. Not gay_. “You’re being very nice lately.”

Sherlock let the silence drag on for a few moments before answering. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Thanking me, letting me get more sleep, being nicer to the detectives at the Yard, and now cooking a fantastic meal for me? I’m beginning to get suspicious.” John smiled, but Sherlock didn’t seem to see that he was joking.

“Why would my niceness make you feel suspicious? That’s a ridiculous leap in thinking.” Sherlock set his fork down and took a sip of wine, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

“Oh my God, did you drug me again?”

“What? No, of course not!” Sherlock looked slightly mortified at the question. “Just being nice. I thought you would be grateful. I can stop, if you’d rather.”

“No, it’s… fine. It’s nice, actually.”

“…Good.” Sherlock finished his wine before standing up and going over to the sofa again.

John shook his head, smiling again. “What, not going to do the dishes for me?”

“Wouldn’t want it to seem  _suspicious_ ,” came the slightly muffled reply. Sherlock lifted his head from the sofa cushion to give John a look of slight distain. John held up his hands, grinning, and did the dishes himself.

* * *

They fell into a comfortable rhythm for a few weeks. Sherlock would be utterly brilliant, John would tell him so, they would argue about food and sleep and the shopping, Sherlock would lounge around the house, John would struggle not to think about the gift to humanity known as Sherlock’s fingers or hair or lips or—

_Not gay._

Sherlock came in from the cold and shrugged off his coat, carelessly hanging it on the hook by the door. John looked up in time to watch him tug off the scarf and hang it as well. He barely noticed when Sherlock went into his bedroom.

Jesus, his neck. John could write sonnets about his neck. (Or someone could, anyway. Maybe he should tell Irene… But she’d probably take that as more proof that John Watson was in love with Sherlock.) No wonder he constantly wore a scarf. He was probably trying to keep people at bay. It was  _perfect_ , like something from a Roman statue. As if the universe had replicated Michelangelo’s  _David_  on a warm, living being. Marble, sculpted over muscle and veins, begging him to see if it reddened when the other man got embarrassed or—

“ _JOHN!_ ”

John jumped when the door slammed, looking up immediately and feeling guilty about his train of thought. As soon as he spotted Sherlock he swore and looked away again, feeling his face heat.  _Not gay not gay not gay_. “What are you doing?!”

Sherlock stood there, clutching a towel around his waist. He sighed pointedly. “We’ve lived in the same flat for almost ten years now; I would like to point out that your modesty is misplaced. You’ve certainly seen me in more compromising situations than–”

“All right, all right. What is it, Sherlock?” John looked back at Sherlock, pointedly keeping eye contact so he wouldn’t follow the drops of water tracing over the hills and valleys of Sherlock’s torso and  _oh god shut up stop thinking he’s talking_.

“–and the spores in the medicine cabinet are gone. I realise that space is out of the agreed territories for experimenting, but  _this_  is–”

_I have never wanted to be a drop of water so much SHUT UP_

“–even in my  _room_ , which we agreed was a free region for the use of anything I find necessary. So I would appreciate–”

_Towel towel towel towel towel towel_

“Now if you wouldn’t mind leaving the teeth in–”

_Not gay dammit dammit dammit_

“Sherlock, I’m really sorry about getting in your space. It won’t happen again. Can you please go put on some clothes now?”

Sherlock looked irritated and confused as to why that was necessary. “Why?”

“Because you’re just in a towel?”

“Why does that  _matter?_ ”

“Jesus! Because it’s making me uncomfortable?”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes but stomped back into his bedroom. He came back out in a pair of boxers, ruffling his wet hair with the towel and giving John an exasperated look. “Better?”

_Not really. Jesus Christ, I’m gay for Sherlock._

“Much. Thank you. You said something about teeth?”

* * *

It was a difficult existence, John decided. Teetering between his status as a forcefully heterosexual man and his growing attraction to Sherlock made him nervous. Every time Sherlock tipped his head back or ruffled his hair or straightened his back (so he looked like some kind of Byronic hero,  _damn_ ) or even  _smiled_  at John the doctor would wonder what the hell had happened to him.

Eventually he got to a place where he went on dates to restore his confidence in his heterosexuality. Whenever he got the urge to bite right  _there_  on Sherlock’s collar bone or even just ruffle his hair when he looked like some kind of sex god sprawled lazily on the sofa (which happened often), he would go down to the pub and try to chat someone up. He was successful quite often, although he sometimes found his mind wandering to Sherlock when a woman babbled on about something. He would imagine his reaction to the people around him or what would happen if John tried to chat Sherlock up.

One night in particular, John was having trouble finding anyone interested. He had a couple of beers before sighing and heading home to find Sherlock hunched over an experiment in the kitchen. “No luck?” the detective called, not looking up from his petri dish.

“I don’t know what you mean,” John answered, going over to his chair and starting to type up another blog entry.

“At the pub. You weren’t able to find—”

“Yes, Sherlock, I know what you mean. Shut up.”

The younger man fell silent. “Why have you been going out so often lately?”

“Sorry?”

“The frequency of trips to the pub in order to ‘chat people up’ as you so eloquently call it has increased. Why?”

_Because you’re an attractive bastard._

“I don’t know. That’s not exactly your business, Sherlock.”

“You’re obviously seeking companionship. I want to know why.”

“There’s not a reason.”

Sherlock stopped working and set down the pipette in his hand before going over to his chair and sitting down. “So it’s something involving me. Interesting.”

“What? No, it isn’t. Stop trying to deduce me.”

“Your denial isn’t convincing me otherwise.”

John groaned. “Sherlock, please just leave it alone. I’m fine, I promise. I just miss going out.”

“We go out all the time.”

“Not like that, you twit.”  _Although I wish it was_

“But that isn’t enough for you.”

John was a bit startled. “What?”

“You want more out of our relationship. That’s all right with me. Honestly I was unsure about why you waited so long to–”

“Hang on, what? What do you mean?”

“Obviously you are looking for a deeper connection between us in order to further our relationship. I would suggest going to a nice dinner to strengthen the bond and satisfy your need for romantic gestures.”

John stared at Sherlock, unable to form words. “Our relationship?”

“Well, yes.”

“You want to go on a date.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock watched John before something in his gaze shifted from expectant to disappointed. “Ah. You didn’t think we were…” He cleared his throat. “I apologise for my false assumption. I would appreciate if you could forget this conversation took place.”

“No, Sherlock… I would be okay with that.” Sherlock’s face went blank and he froze, staring at the shorter man. “Sherlock?” John called after a few moments.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

John managed to hide a wide grin. “Good.” He stood up and went to the kitchen to make tea. “You know, now that we’re in a relationship, you’ll need to be more considerate.”

“I  _have_  been,” Sherlock protested. “Thanking you, being nicer, cooking…”

“ _That’s_  why you’ve been acting so strangely?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not relevant.”

John snorted. “Fine.” He brought their tea over and sat down, laughing softly. “I guess I’m not quite as not gay as I thought.”

“And how is that?”

“Surprisingly okay.”


End file.
